


one desire

by vanitaslaughing



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Gen, Mentions of a truckload of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: The line between selfless and selfish is thinner than he believed it would be.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER WARNING
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT READ UNLESS
> 
> a) Shadowbringers (quest) is finished  
> b) By the Time Your Hear This (The Twinning) is finished
> 
> ADDITIONALLY
> 
> i haven't decided on the proper ending to this as of posting this first part.  
> it might be a really bad end au, or canon compliant  
> i'll know by the time i finish the second chapter  
> and i'll let you know accordingly when i post that.
> 
> WITHOUT FURTHER ADO,
> 
> sorry for stretching this thing out so much
> 
> ha

_If you have read this journal so far, I presume your mind is made up and you have an inkling on how to proceed with what we gleaned._  
_Should that be the case, I doubt not that I will long since have joined my friends and comrades that went before. But please, I beg of you, if you have read thus far entertain this rambling fool’s request for but a moment. Whether you do so will, once again, be up to you._  
_As forwarded to what remained of the researchers under the late Scaeva, there is no doubt that the Crystal Tower will survive what has befallen us. Listen well—the explicit order to open its gates should you decide that the past must needs be changed at the cost explained was given. In the event that you do, you will doubtlessly rouse its guardian._  
_Please, and I beg this of you not as Cid Garlond whose theories and suggestions you doubtlessly have considered for a long time, perhaps even are part of the Ironworks should it survive so far into the future—the guardian._  
_You need not soften the truth for him. You need not talk around the subject of death and decay, of tragedy and despair._  
_But let him cry. Let him scream. For he comes from a time before the Calamity, before all broke beneath our feet. From a time where he but just parted with us and the Warrior of Light._  
_He will help you, I do not doubt that for a moment._  
_G’raha Tia but needs a moment to gather his bearings after his awakening._

* * *

Something stirred.

He had long expected his dreams to be interrupted gently, like someone pulling open a curtain and letting that bright, warm light flood in. Alas.

The Crystal Tower had neither windows nor curtains. He wasn’t even in a bed. There was no gradual shift between the faintest hint of a dream of a bygone era and the waking world. It was sharp. Abrupt. Where he had previously all but floated about without a thought, he suddenly found himself on the cold crystalline floor of the Ocular. He didn’t even scramble for purchase on the equally cold walls to pull himself up.

His head wasn’t full of cotton. Gods, he had expected to be as groggy as staying up past midnight made him back… back… back _then._ Whenever _then_ was now.

And by the heavens, he was sharply aware of people slowly ascending the tower in search of… something. _Someone._ Rather than shaking off sleep he was awake and at the height of his mental capacities.

His body, of course, betrayed him. Stiff muscles. Unresponsive limbs. He spared nary a second thought to the fact that his own flesh seemed to have turned into crystal partially by this point. Expected side-effects. Nothing too debilitating in the grand picture. It merely meant that everything had worked the way it should have; he was alive and none the worse for wear when any Seeker worth their salt might have long since passed away into the cold night. Not him. He was the guardian of the Crystal Tower, its thought centre. The one who controlled it. It seemed only right that it had started to turn his body into an extension of it as he slept likely long beyond his mortal lifespan.

He could not dwell on this much longer, because he heard chatter. It rang in his ears—they flattened against his head, unused to the sudden noise. Why on earth was he able to hear these people who were several floors below him so… loudly? Their voices—and he hated that joke—were crystal clear. They all sounded awed despite him being the one who should be awed. They had managed to open the doors. Then he heard a name, and his traitorous heart skipped a beat. He’d heard that name before.

An unknown voice called someone Biggs.

Had they managed it? Wasn’t this in the distant future—had the Ironworks come here to rouse him from his slumber after all?

And though his body was in a state of dragging, he started moving forwards. Every step made his unresponsive limbs lighter, every breath he took while awake washed the godawful drowsiness that remained deep in his bones away. By the time his body caught up to his state of alertness, he found himself almost excited. If Biggs was here, the rest of NOAH would follow suit soon. Perhaps they were outside. Maybe there was a fair chance he’d see Rammbroes and Cid, Wedge and the Warrior. Even Nero. Perhaps the rest of the Scions, seeing as they had made their home in Mor Dhona not too long before he decided what the best course of action was.

When he finally met the group, still halfway up the stairs while they stood on a platform, he stopped dead. There wasn’t a known face among them. Biggs certainly wasn’t around; the five Roegadyn in that group did not look like anyone he knew at all. He stared at them with wide red eyes—but they did not seem surprised to find another Spoken in these halls.

“G’raha Tia, correct?” It was the Auri woman who spoke, however. She looked rather battle-hardened for someone who wore a researcher’s garb.

G’raha nodded slowly. Opened his mouth. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask for these strangers’ names and ask what they wanted here. It was obvious what they wanted—the Crystal Tower, judging from the familiar icon emblazoned on their uniforms. Of course the Garlond Ironworks would know the man who ruled these halls even in his slumber, there was no way that Cid would not make certain that the future generations knew who or what awaited them within the tower.

But asking for their names would see the coffin shut and nailed tight. If there was one familiar last name, one of them named after another, he would know that so much time had passed that the faces he once knew were gone and perhaps even faded in the pages of history. He’d so very proudly said that the Warrior of Light’s exploits would be the star that he would chart his course after—but for him their passing as the doors shut behind him had not been that long ago. It felt like a month. Admittedly the memories were faded and lacked clear distinction at times but he remembered it. He remembered.

His body, awake and traitorous still, moved on its own. Even if he could not speak to these people right now because his tongue lay useless and heavy in his mouth, he least he could do would be approaching these people. He took a step down. One foot after another. Gods, he did not remember these stairs being such an obstacle, especially since they were leading down.

The group talked amongst itself. He definitely heard the word ‘Calamity’ and a question of whether he knew or not.

He stopped dead. Ears flat against his head.

“Beg… beg your pardon?”

They all looked at him—and he understood.

His heart sank as they then exchanged a look amongst themselves; the Auri woman took a step backwards and shook her head. One of the Roegadyns also raised their hands. For a minute or so they urgently discussed who should tell him, and G’raha _understood._ He knew what was coming when eventually the Viera pushed her way past the others and nailed him with a look that was both pity and contempt.

“Founding Chief’s records say you’re from his era—right after the Seventh Calamity, right? The one with Dalamud falling?”

Finally his tongue untied. But his voice was a hoarse whisper. “So I am.”

The Viera shook her head, her uncommonly short hair for one of her race swaying with the motion. “Well then, Master G’raha. Welcome to the world after the Eighth.”

“The… The Eighth,” he repeated, voice breaking despite the fact it was so quiet. A few of these people looked at him with pity on their faces as he reeled over that revelation.

He wasn’t given a moment to collect his thoughts. The woman narrowed her eyes a little before she continued. “We did not come here to rouse you from your slumber lightly and on a whim based on old notes that Masters Garlond and Scaeva left for us, make no mistake. Had we any other option, we would have let you continue sleeping, unaware of the tragic fate that befell the world and those you knew while you slept. We would have let you sleep so you could wake up in a world that has forgotten this catastrophe. But we are out of time. Out of options. We cannot change the lot given to us right now, but the Ironworks’ hard labour will not go to waste. Please.” And then suddenly the harsh look on her face dropped as she got on her knees to bow before him. “We need your help to finalise what our predecessors started. We can change this fate that befell the world. But in order to save them we need what you know. What you can do. We need the Crystal Tower and its guardian on our side.”

Of course, he wanted to scream. They didn’t have to ask him—they had woken him after all! If anyone owed someone anything here, he owed these people who were… living… in a world after another Calamity. He could _see_ it for a moment. Those comets that brushed past the treetops, saw entire cliffsides coming down because they were hit. Heard the waves crash and blubber as molten rock sunk beneath them, heard the crack and groan of a forest on fire.

Heard the people scream for help.

He swayed slightly, crystalline hand holding onto the railing like a lifeline.

The Lalafell in the group a few steps below him looked at him. Said something—but it fell upon deaf ears.

All he could think about was NOAH. He saw the Warrior of Light laugh slightly as they said that there wouldn’t be another Calamity on their watch. Heard everyone else laugh—even saw the unwelcome guest Nero tol Scaeva roll his eyes with an amused expression on his face. No Calamities as long as they lived. Heard all of then join in, agree that there would be no more world’s end scenarios as long as they lived.

He turned to look at the people who looked at him slightly concerned. “The Calamity,” he hissed, desperately clutching at straws. “When did it take place?”

If it happened after their lives were long over… against the odds… even though they had said that they had come here based on Cid’s research….

He almost wanted to beg the Twelve to grant him that much at least after he left NOAH claiming that this was what was necessary. After claiming that his destiny awaited him in the future. He wanted to beg the gods to tell him that his companions hadn’t been caught in that. That it had happened long after their time. That… that their ends had been peaceful—

And there it was again; that crushing look of pity.

This time no one said anything—because these strangers saw that he understood what this answer meant. This silence. He was fairly certain that his expression showed the blank shock that rocked through his body, but they did not budge. They did not say a thing. He knew they all just hoped that he would still help them, even if he hated them for being alive when his friends from back then were not.

Dead.

Dead in a Calamity no less.

Yet here he stood, crystalline hand on gilded rails in the remnants of a civilisation long since gone, all but amidst a group of strangers who needed an answer.

For a moment he considered screaming. Just letting his dangerously weak legs give in and plummet down the stairs, hopefully joining those long gone.

But no. No, he couldn’t. Thus, with the distinct crunch of the rail—or perhaps his hand, he did not know—echoing eerily through the quiet, he opened his eyes again. Bright, scarlet. Unfamiliar, perhaps not even human to these people. They already had not particularly been normal for a Seeker back then.

“Very well,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady and clear now that the shock had passed. “This tower will be at your disposal, assuming you permit me to join you. I would… learn as much as I can of this tragedy to help you unwrite it.”

* * *

Having work to do kept his mind from trailing off. Scavenging through the ruins of a world he once knew and now did no longer hurt, yes, but at the very least there was a clear disconnect between what he knew and what he saw. Thinking about the people who lived as the Vault in Ishgard came crumbling down upon streets filled with corpses was a whole other matter—because he heard the Warrior of Light’s voice, dulled by him nearly having forgotten it by now, three years after he woke, talk about how Ishgard had reached out for the first time in years and the Lord Commander seemed like a decent person. Perhaps, and they had said that with so much optimism that it had been contagious, they could mend the Eorzean Alliance if things continued this way.

It was the times when he wasn’t busy that were the worst. Hearing about the Ironworks’ exploits first-hand thanks to those who kept up Cid’s legacy. Though that was not first-hand. They only told what they knew from the records that survived to this day. How those that lived through Black Rose all rose up together to try piecing the world back together.

Because those that they normally would have fallen to had not lived through it.

The Scions—wiped out.

And those that had survived the initial Calamity were struck down. Those that hadn’t choked to death in agony died in just as much agony, bleeding out in the streets, in the collapsing civilisation around—

Times like these, he slammed his hands against his cheeks. Told himself to keep it together. Those people had expected an aloof or wise guardian, not a man _still_ struggling to wrap his head around any of this.

He slipped exactly once when they ran into another group of travellers and sat around that campfire. The people talked—and too late he realised that he was listening to a retelling of the Warrior of Light’s story. A war hero. A trusted friend. The idiot who still ran around and got themselves into minor pest extermination jobs. It was all glorified; he had heard the recounting of the Praetorium straight from the Warrior’s mouth after all. They hadn’t seemed too happy about that, ears turned back and a scowl on their lips as they closed their eyes and said that so much of this could have been avoided. What the people here told was an epic.

That was all that survived. He was the only living being that had even _seen_ the Warrior of Light. And most of their exploits happened _after_ the doors slid shut.

Only when the people stopped talking to look at him did he realise that he sat there weeping.

“G’raha, right? Are you quite fine?”

Biggs, the third according to himself, moved slightly. The rest of the Ironworks did as well—the other group didn’t know about him, but they certainly knew what might have prompted this reaction.

He forced a smile. It probably looked just as fake as it felt.

“Yes, quite. My apologies. I hadn’t… heard that particular tale, and it… it,” he shook his head slightly. A lie they had made up about him and his condition. A unique sickness that came from having been born where Black Rose initially spread and then having grown up in Mor Dhona, all but at the Crystal Tower’s base—they had given him parents that were long dead and who had loved telling stories of old. Friends. “My best friend would have liked it, were they around to hear it.”

Maybe that much wasn’t a lie.

* * *

“Godspeed, G’raha Tia.”

What a way to see off a man who was going to fly right to his death. They all knew that, and most had refused to come see him because of that. They felt like they were making a sacrifice of him after all the hard work they put into making certain that this was even possible. He desperately wished that at least Biggs would have been here, but alas.

He gave the Viera a smile that was not sad for once. Her eyes even widened a little—G’raha Tia was not known for smiling much, and when he did it was always gloomy.

“Thank you. For everything. I’ll see that technology brings freedom after all.”


	2. Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised, here's me telling you what this goes towards:
> 
> it'll stay with canon until the very end. No divergence.

_He’s gone._  
_Perhaps that is a dour note to open this journal entry upon, but after all this hard work… staring at the vacant space whereupon once the Crystal Tower stood is a sight that I cannot describe. I almost wish the Founder were here to see it along with the rest of his fellow survivors. All their research, all their suggestions and theories they have sown have now sprouted on this dead soil that we thought incapable of ever bearing fruit._  
 _Yet at the same time knowing that G’raha Tia went off to face this harsh fate in our stead with the first genuine smile I have ever seen on his face, I cannot help but wonder if we really should have let him go. He was so very unlike what the chronicles described him as, and now that he’s gone, I cannot help but wonder if_  
 _Please, First Shard—treat him kindly even while you are teetering on the brink. It is what we prepared for for years, but it will be G’raha doing the sacrificing—as it looks like, one life for… two worlds._

* * *

The entire place was choking. Horrible. Overwhelming.

He had been in the presence of undimmed light before—just as he had been in the presence of undimmed darkness. What Xande had done however paled in the sheer utter terror that he felt right now. The Warrior of Light’s aether had not been this… rancid. Oppressive. There wasn’t a word that G’raha knew that seemed to fit what he beheld upon his arrival, and he boasted quite the vocabulary.

No, as he stood there with a hand against the outer door he considered sealing right now, he realised a proper word for this world.

Stagnant.

The light drowned out most of what might have once been an aetherially rich region, looking at how beautiful the trees looked. If their path had been traced correctly then he should be standing in what might be the First’s Mor Dhona or at least approximately close to it. He could see it in the colours—but unlike Mor Dhona, where the gloom coloured it that way, it seemed naturally occurring here. Gods, he wanted the others to see this. He wanted everyone to see the pristine crystalline blue of the Crystal Tower stand out against the vibrant and somehow unreal to his eyes trees. Everyone—the Ironworks, NOAH.

Definitely the Warrior of Light.

But just as beautiful as it was it did not get rid of the horrible prickling sensation he felt upon his skin. He had thought the robes he had retrieved from the Crystal Tower after he woke would be enough protection, but he had not once been in the presence of such corruptive light. This was a world on the brink, a world on the verge of rejoining the Source. If they had traced the location and timeline correctly—

“Oh.”

He looked around. There was indeed a settlement not too far from his position, and he could barely make out that there were people moving about in an uproar from up here. But he did not see anything that spelled the end times. There were no light-equivalent voidsent about in the streets—he would have seen them, or at least felt their dreadful light from here. But there was nothing of the sort.

Some of the braver townspeople were considering approaching the strange structure that had suddenly appeared, and while he watched them approach he pulled up his hood if only to conceal his eyes. No matter what—Allagan royal red had been a curiosity and unsettling on the Source, but here it might as well mark him as something entirely wrong and perhaps on the same level as a voidsent.

Now that he thought about it, this place felt like a stagnant void of light, but it wasn’t what he had expected from a world on the brink. It wasn’t death throes but rather the quiet wasting away of a world that would soon enter these.

“Damn.” He drew his hand across his face. “Our spatial aim was correct, but our temporal aim….”

Well, he would have to work with the lot they had given him. It wasn’t as if he was going to die of old age before this world joined the Source—he had made certain of that. Assuming that he would not have to stray to far, and assuming that no one shoved a blade through his heart, he was going to live until either the First joined the Source.

Or until he managed to find a solution to it.

The people were still approaching, slower now. It seemed that the Crystal Tower had the same effect on them as it had had on him and the Warrior of Light once.

A sharp ache jolted through his body as he remembered looking up at this crystalline marvel side by side with the other Miqo’te.

Anything for the future, they had agreed. That their ancestors would not have to suffer this fate again, that perhaps they may be reborn in a brighter future. The Ironworks of the Calamity had been thoroughly unselfish except for the desire to add a page to the Warrior of Light’s book, for they were a hero that they had always kept in mind. G’raha Tia on the other hand could boast no such selflessness in this very moment.

He just wanted them to live. Live, and perhaps almost foolishly he wanted to reach out to the Source to wake his sleeping self. There was so much more to be had being awake than waiting for a future that was so heartbreaking it had doused his desire to run about like a mad hare gathering information. He had wanted to use the Warrior of Light’s story as his guiding star, not as the one thing that kept him from falling apart entirely. He’d wanted to be a nuisance guardian with an unexpected spring in his step rather than the quiet, mellow man who looked at the dim sunsets with a heavy sigh every so often.

He needed to get to work before he started overthinking this again.

First things first, perhaps he ought to act the solemn guardian. The local survivors of the flood of light certainly would not benefit from a confused man yearning for bygone days.

* * *

At first they had agreed to work together to their mutual benefit. He did all he could to help the people with what the Crystal Tower brought with it, they in turn made certain that he got each and every book that he desired—assuming it had made it through the flood. Not long afterwards, he found himself asking the people for help to build a library outside the Crystal Tower to keep all those books accessible to the people. It baffled them at first, but then a Viera—no, a Viis—woman said that it was a wonderful idea. Her words were accompanied by the giggle of her daughter in her arms, and the people of Lakeland’s confusion gave way to appreciation.

Before long, he shared even more that he dug up from the libraries hidden within the Crystal Tower to ensure that the people could recover ever so slightly from the Flood. This was but the first step in his plan—and they in turn welcomed him as if he were one of them despite him not telling them where he was from.

Some decided to stay, helped him with building more than just that library. But most of the people who were in the region they called Lakeland remained in their still-standing homes.

It went on like that for roughly a full turn of the seasons, were the people to be believed. It was unimaginably hard to keep track of time when the sun never set and the skies never darkened. Within a fortnight he had turned his eyes to the light-bleached heavens and chased off the thoughts of standing beside the Crystal Tower with the Warrior of Light by his side as he asked them if he was a clone as well, the rest of NOAH joining Doga and Unei in the distance. This was not the time to think back to those two seasons that changed his life forever. No time to think about the hand on his shoulder, the smile on that face—

It was a day like any other, bright, all too bright, that would change things. He had been sitting hunched over seven tomes at once, turning their pages with increasing frustration. Spells, incantations, tricks of the eye and aether; yet none helped him find the Warrior of Light through the Rift. Hells, he could barely reach to the Source at that. It had been so easy in theory but now that it came to doing so, he felt so utterly and dreadfully alone that it made him numb.

That terrifying howl ripped him out of wallowing in his misery just when he gingerly picked up a tome that had proven not helpful at all to slam it against the wall. He froze—he had not heard those howls this close before. According to the people who arrived later the population of Norvrandt had taken to calling these creatures “sin eaters”, a name that reminded him of the voidsent but not in a good way. He yet had to have the pleasure to run into one personally, seeing as he kept himself locked away in the Crystal Tower for the most part and when he left he mostly dealt with the people who had taken to building their homes at the tower’s base and the nearest small settlements.

G’raha dropped the book and jumped to his feet. On the way out he grabbed the nearest weapon that he found—crystalline fingers curled around an ancient Allagan staff of some sort, a weapon that nearly immediately felt right in his hands. He had still used his bow back in the Source, but he had left that with Biggs and the others as a parting gift of a sort. No, as a reminder that he swore he would not let all their sacrifices be in vain, as a reminder that he would carry their wishes to the very Mothercrystal herself it the need arose. This weapon would serve him just fine, especially seeing how linking himself up with the structure itself had granted him no small amount of skill with aetherial manipulation. Arrows imbued with the very elements themselves in a world stagnating under corrosive light and the leftovers of a poison most potent had proven to be scarily effective.

But he ran, his robes not hindering him in the slightest any longer. The man who had worked with NOAH would have been bothered by them, preferring the freedom of movement with a simple hunter’s garb, but it suited him just fine. Allagan designs, he learned, suited him rather well—he was, after all, the last descendant of one of the known survivors and servants of the royal line.

As soon as the rushed out the gates he turned his head to the heavens. G’raha had often craned his neck to look up at the Crystal Tower in the time he had spend with everyone at Saint Coinach’s Find. Hells, he still looked up at it every so often here in Norvrandt, its existence no less a miracle than it was back then after it re-emerged from the cleft it had vanished into. But rather than look at his home and only hope, he instead turned his gaze to the infernally bright skies above.

Those horrid white shapes that flew above his head, circled around the tower and moved onwards towards the Lakeland proper were barely visible—just as voidsent were oft not properly visible in the dark they called their home. He watched, suddenly horrified—until a handful broke away from the flock and descended—

“Heavens, no!”

And he ran.

Those creatures were headed towards the settlement nestled beside the Crystal Tower. It was barely more than a structure full of rooms, suites for a want of better term. Those people decided they wanted to keep each other’s company.

Most of them weren’t fighters. They were artisans, fled from all around Norvrandt. Some even hailed from regions lost to the light, on a travel to this place for some reason or another. There were a handful who definitely knew how to handle a weapon; some were knights, others sellswords. But after having lost so much quite man of them had lost their fire, the spark that saw them willing to fight.

He arrived to screaming and chaos. A hundred people, technically not under his care but definitely living next to his prowling grounds. They were good people, good people who most definitely did not deserve being hunted like prey. Neither were the rest of the people in the Lakeland region. Or around all Norvrandt.

Having listened to all those countless tales of the Warrior of Light’s exploits, G’raha had no delusions of grandeur. He was not a saviour. Would never be a saviour. Still, he raised his weapon with a growl and prayed to his ancestors’ wishes and to the Ironworks of the Eighth to grant him the power to persevere here.

One of the sin eaters, nailed in the back by a spell, crashed to the ground with a horrid screech. For a moment everything seemed to pause—then the people who knew how to drew their weapons when G’raha swung his staff again to bring down the next one.

What had been a brutal one-sided slaughter before turned into a people’s struggle to live.

And they won.

They won, he realised when the last sin eater burst into bright light and everyone stopped dead in their tracks to watch the light dissipate.

A hundred or so survivors. G’raha barely counted seventy now, beaten and bleeding, some cowering between crates, others sobbing with their faces buried in their hands.

He opened his mouth to say something—he instead remembered the rest of the flock and turned his head towards the skies, towards the Lakeland.

A murmur went through the people, and an Auri woman—no, a Drahn woman—who had been patching up people’s cuts and nicks with her wand weaving conjury around her, cleared her throat. “Aye. The rest is still on the move. But what can we do?”

Nothing.

They were too few to fend off an entire flock of sin eaters. Too few to keep this place defended. But still; perhaps having lived in a place where hope was all but spent and mankind considered itself finished and merely awaited the inevitable horrid end had made him tougher in that regard. There was still hope to be had—after all, the people who had put away their weapons to await death peacefully had drawn them just now. The people of Norvrandt, the people of the First, still had some fight left in them.

Their temporal aim may have been completely wrong—but he started to realise that it might have been a blessing in disguise. He needed time to figure out how to reach over to the Source and to beckon the Warrior of Light to this dying world.

But he also needed time to fan those sparks of hope perhaps not into an all-consuming fire, but into a small flame that would rouse their desire to live. Thus he turned to look at the people. They all looked back, even if they could not see his face.

“Call it foolish, but I would not abandon these people to their lot. If even one can be saved, I shall see them saved. Tend to your wounds, retreat to the safety of your quarters—I would go alone, and when I return it is high time we properly sat down together to see what we can make of the Crystal Tower’s base. It should serve well as foundation for a proper settlement.”

One man whispered to another that he was mad. There was no way he was going to survive hunting down sin eaters on his own. A child broke into tears, a teenager closed their eyes and shook their head.

But some others exchanged a look.

“Well, some would call this a foolish endeavour, and I’m one of ‘em,” a Hume with one eye said. He did, however, reach for the lance he had used to defend himself and his daughter before. “But you got a point. I’ll come with ya.”

Some others with weapons nodded.

Perhaps mankind was nowhere near as finished as the people believed, G’raha realised as his surprise turned into a smile.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Less than seventy turned into a thousand within what people called the duration of winter. The simple settlement and the library turned into more living space than was strictly necessary and a fledgling market. He opened the doors of the tower to the people, let them seek shelter in there whenever eaters were on the move, and before long he found himself standing in the midst of a gaggle of people standing around a table, several different sorts of coins scattered on the table. Hilariously, the Allagan gil from the Source looked almost freakishly outlandish amidst these coins that he would have called exotic. This discussion had been going on for a while—but eventually it was the Viis woman from the settlement that had since fallen, her daughter slightly older and trying to snatch a coin from the table with a mischievous smile on her face, who stomped her foot as she picked up the girl to keep her from stealing.

“Well, bugger all this money nonsense. Far eastern, near eastern Kholusian… does it really matter? We know what all this stuff’s made from, and the coin we found in the tower’s purely made from one material. I’d say we use that as a base ‘n determine other coins’ worth based on that.”

A murmur went through the group, and G’raha crossed his arms. “That does seem like a feasible solution. That way, no coin is worth less than it ought to be, but not worth more than any other.”

He could almost hear the animated discussion he had had with the Warrior of Light and a Doman refugee again. Doma used a different coin than Eorzea, and apparently it had taken them some time to get used to the difference. The Warrior of Light meanwhile had leaned against the building in Mor Dhona, a mischievous sparkle in their eyes that looked similar to the girl’s right now. Then they said that they very, very desperately wished that Rowena accepted coin rather than ancient tomestones; the latter being a pain to obtain and the former being fairly easy for an adventurer.

G’raha back then had grinned at the Warrior, had raised his hand to waggle his index finger in front of the Warrior’s face only to smugly say that within the Crystal Tower there likely were entire caches of these things that they had yet to unearth. And that he was not going to share his part of the cake if the Warrior continued whining like this—it wasn’t as if Tomestones were _that_ hard to come by. They had laughed, said that not everyone was an Allagan historian and knew precisely where to dig in the dirt.

He’d taken offence to the notion of _digging—_ when they had caught him doing just that the day before.

He snapped his attention back to the present. The people were currently caught up in a most animated discussion about what to call their currency, and G’raha had half a mind to let them choose something.

But he raised his crystalline hand slowly. “If I may. Considering that this is a new unit of measurement that will take a while getting used to, how about we simply name it after what we unearthed in the tower together?”

“Gil, milord?”

“Yes. Gil.”

This wasn’t the Source. This wasn’t the Source after the Calamity. But somehow he found himself nearly sick with a longing for those days where he scavenged through the remnants of a civilisation he had lived in with Biggs—and definitely felt sick thinking about those days when his troubles were his constant migraines, the Crystal Tower looming above him, and whether the Warrior would split his head open like an apple for how he had acted when they had first met.

* * *

Catastrophe always struck when one least expected it.

One day they had excitedly welcomed another hundred come from the wastes of Amh Araeng.

This morning, one of the first seventy, by now an old woman, turned into a sin eater in the middle of a crowd. Its claws tore through his face but it disengaged when someone pulled him aside, flailing about almost helplessly—and then tore through three people including whoever had pulled him aside, injured even more before someone with a weapon put it down. The stunned silence was soon interrupted by _horrid_ wailing, and G’raha looked down at the person who had saved him from the sin eater’s claws.

It was a young Viis woman, and he realised with a jolt of horror that it was the daughter of the woman who had helped them name their currency gil. The girl with the mischievous eyes, the girl who had held her mother’s hand as she passed after a long bout of sickness and then instead turned to becoming a hoarder of knowledge.

The people all looked around, waited for someone to say or do something.

G’raha himself raised his hand to his face. It was bleeding rather profusely, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t heal. Perhaps it would scar. Though, considering the strange tingling that he felt on the skin around the wound, the tower itself would likely fix it. As long as no vital organs were struck or he was too far from it, he was virtually immortal. The beating heart of the tower.

Thus he dropped his hand again. Took a few steps forward to pick the girl up. Her ear was nicked but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

Fourty years since the Crystal Tower arrived. This was hardly a huge loss, but she was still a child and people turning in the middle of settlements was a traumatic event to all but especially a child. A child who had already lost her father before her very eyes, taken by the same sickness that had taken her grandmother.

The girl clung to him, and his voice sounded strangely raw when he finally managed to say something. “Take care of the wounded. I will take care of Lyna.”

* * *

Lyna, as it turned out, was just as sharply intelligent as her mother. Which, was, all things considered, rather impressive for a child of nine who hadn’t hit her race’s first growth-spurt quite yet and remained about as tall as a Hume five-year-old. She should be sprouting to the skies themselves—at least compared to an admittedly unusually short Seeker of the Sun like him—rather soon, and once she reached adulthood she would likely grow a bit before settling in on her final height. Nevertheless, Lyna seemed thrilled to have all those books.

But once she turned fifteen and indeed towered over him, she instead turned her eyes to something else.

Weapons.

There was that glint in her eyes that he had seen years ago when she’d looked at the gil, and he understood. She wanted to fight for those she had left. Viera and Viis lived long, longer than any other race both here and on the Source. Her grandmother had been over eighty when she had had her mother, and her mother died when she had been nearly fifty yet looked not a day older than twenty.

“Lyna.”

It was for all intents and purposes another day in the Crystarium. That was what they had started calling this settlement that grew further and further every day. There were entire farms and fields now, research dedicated to conserving what they had and ensuring that it would continue growing. Animal researchers and caretakers, hoarders of knowledge like himself. Warriors and cowards, the wise and the foolish, the old and the young. As long as they told where they hailed from and what their stories were, they were all welcomed into the Crystarium with open arms. Those that meant harm would be dispatched but there yet had to be a single person who tried to go through with any intention of causing an upstir after they were welcomed that warmly and integrated right away if they so desired.

She had stopped at this weaponsmiths stall and eyed a pair of throwing weapons.

“I know what you are about to say,” she said with her young voice steady but strained. “That I am too young for any of this. But I do not wish to burden you any longer simply because my mother was… your friend, perhaps.”

He raised his hand to his face. A scar would have been easier to hide, but as he had predicted the wound had instead crystallised over. It was a constant on his face, a reminder that he had nearly gotten his throat torn out by this creature that day and would have surely died had Lyna’s mother not pulled him out of the way. He didn’t mind. G’raha never minded, but Lyna was in the age where most people back in Eorzea would start adventuring if they were uncertain where their future truly lay.

Were this Eorzea, she would doubtlessly make off with the weapons and try to make some money in a city state doing unloved jobs.

“Foolish girl,” he laughed softly and stepped up to the weaponsmith’s makeshift stand. “How much for these?”

The weaponsmith looked surprised—but so did Lyna.

“Uh… I’m not sure I should be chargin’ the Exarch—“

“Nonsense. Name your price. Or if you would refuse my coin, perhaps we ought to see a proper stand built for you. Up those stairs over there, perhaps? I had not quite made up my mind what we should put there, but now that I think about it… I will bring this up with the master of the markets, if you would like.”

That merchant certainly was stumped. He stuttered and mumbled, handed over the throwing weapons and even more. He thanked them both profusely, repeatedly, and then stuttered out a compliment about his staff.

Lyna looked confused, opened her mouth once, twice, several times. He instead shook his head slightly.

“Not out here. Let us return to the Ocular, then we can talk.”

She also started stuttering confused thanks—as they walked back several people turned their heads to look at them, smiles on their faces. It was no secret that the people considered them something akin to grandfather and granddaughter.

Years on the Source, and now those years on the First. He was far from the height of his years, yes, but he felt no different than he did when he had awoken. Perhaps a bit sluggish when sleep did claim him, but other than that he was well beyond his years. He sounded _ancient_ compared to everyone else.

Thus, rather than saying anything, he instead turned around after closing the door behind them and took off his cowl.

Lyna’s eyes widened, and G’raha shot her a smile.

“You weren’t expecting a Mystel, were you? I admit, sometimes I desperately wish to tear the cowl off because wearing it for extended periods of time does hurt my ears, and learning to balance with my tail tucked beneath the robes was harder than anticipated, but regardless. Look at my face.”

The tips of his hair had started going white. His red eyes looked tired. He saw it every so often in the reflection of the crystal walls in his quarters whenever he found the time to sit amidst his books, uncertain whether he was closer to finding a solution or not.

“When I was your age, I left my family with a bow in my hands and my head full of idiocy. Had I not found my friends I would surely have died somewhere out there, no matter how skilled with the bow I was. I know precisely how you feel, Lyna. So go. Sign up to train as a soldier if that is what your heart desires.”

‘Make me proud,’ he left unsaid but she seemed to understand it from his tired smile.

“Oh, and Lyna? Pray keep my identity a secret. I would prefer being addressed like a Hume for the time being.”

* * *

He watched the world change. Watched as both hope and hopelessness took took—the Crystarium was the bastion to those who still hoped, whereas Eulmore turned into the fortress of those that gave up and instead turned to a lavish lifestyle that made most people in the Crystarium turn up their noses in disgust. Perhaps the easy life would have been better, but both the Crystal Exarch and G’raha Tia’s hearts soared when he looked at the people that still wanted to fight for this world struggling against the cold grasping hand of bright death.

But he locked G’raha away again after those moments. There was no point—it had been over ninety years. He was the Crystal Exarch now, and the Exarch he would remain until he died. The Warrior of Light, once he finally managed what he wanted to do, would not grieve for G’raha Tia. They would likely grieve for the Exarch, a man they barely knew. A man who was a far cry from the man who they stood shoulder to shoulder with at Silvertear Lake as they both looked from the Keeper of the Lake to the Crystal Tower.

Bizarre, he had called it back then.

Breathtaking, had been their reply and now, years upon years later, he realised that they had been right.

He reached for another book. Opened it on a random page and mulled over whether to read it forwards or backwards.

But his eyes stopped on a single passage. A simple incantation that no other book had mentioned. His heart skipped so many beats that he nearly collapsed; the world’s edges turned frayed and frazzled as his breath hitched in his throat. This book. The things written in it in ancient Allag.

This was the solution he had desperately tried to find for all these years. It was so _simple_ and Biggs had nearly had it right. It had only needed a dash of more _Allagan nonsense,_ as the Warrior of Light would have called it.

Once more he ran. The cowl even slipped off his head, but his ears remained flat against his head as he ran with the book clutched to his chest. It wasn’t in the downwards bowels that the people called the Twinning. No. He rushed _up,_ up the same sets of stairs that he had climbed countless times as young man beside the Warrior of Light and the rest of NOAH. Stairs that he hadn’t really bothered with as relic of a bygone era. Stairs he hadn’t bothered with as the Crystal Exarch.

He burst out onto the platform that held the throne. He knew it was pointless to call for them—they were long dead as everyone else he had ever know was. But still. Book still pressed against his chest, his heart hammering in there wildly, the Exarch turned his red eyes to the throne.

“Doga! Unei! I understand! I understand now.” The book dropped onto the crystalline ground with a deafening clatter as he dropped his arms and turned to look at the light-blighted skies of Norvrandt. Light.

The Crystal Tower used the sun’s energy, absorbed and channelled through Dalamud. The sun here never set.

That was the power he needed to pierce the Rift. That was the energy issue that Nero’s final theory, writ in his own blood as he choked to death on it, had mentioned and that Cid had picked up upon in his final report before he left the decision to the children that inherited the broken Source.

“Worry not. Your sacrifice shall not be in vain. Not as in vain as it has been ever since I arrived here, my friends. I _will_ see the pages of history corrected as a good historian should.”

He but needed to rouse that one part of the Crystal Tower. Then he would have the energy that he needed to pierce the Rift without hurling himself across it and to beckon someone across.

* * *

His hand shook.

The Exarch’s hand shook. A tremor of terror went through him as he thought about failing this summoning. What if _he_ killed the Warrior of Light and they were merely following history?

He reached forward despite the shaking. Spoke the words that he needed to speak.

And realised too late that he had his hand wrapped around the wrong target.


	3. Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. caught the alt up to speed. so i finally had time to sit down with this and. this part is as long as the other two combined. im a fraud.

_Once, just once, I considered giving them at least a name. Any name. Years ago now._  
_Exarch, the man asked, do you not have a name that your parents gave you? Mine called me Sylla—it’s all I have left of them._  
_And, frankly, for a moment I had ‘Raha’ on my lips. Not G’raha; Mystel names do work quite different from Seeker names. Tia-Raha, Crystal Exarch._  
_Failing that, Desch._  
_But no._  
_Desch survived a Calamity. G’raha Tia slept through one._  
_Thus I only smiled, and though the man did not see, closed my eyes._  
_No, I said, and even if I remembered there would be none left alive to call me by that name. Unless their descendants lived. So the Exarch I remain._

* * *

He had heard about the Scions in great detail. Or in enough detail that he knew precisely who his fumbling hand had yanked over to the First instead of the Warrior of Light. Hand clutching the staff like a lifeline, the Exarch stared at Thancred Waters—heavens above. Heavens above, he hat botched the summoning. This man had not been the target of his spell, yet somehow the Warrior of Light had slipped through his desperate reach like a handful of sand. And now this man was here.

Several heartbeats passed in silence while the man snapped his attention to where he had been brought—enough time for the Exarch to mentally prepare himself. The spell _worked._ He merely needed to work on his shaking hand.

He said as much; the man surprisingly calm for someone who had just been yanked quite literally a world away from where he was supposed to be. When given a set of makeshift clothing, he all but dryly remarked that at least this time around he did not have to hunt to make some makeshift leather clothing so he could try to trade for something a little more civilised. There was a story behind that, but the Exarch genuinely did not care about this. The spell worked. The spell _worked._

Reversing it should not have been a problem, by any means. Thancred attempted to help despite his clear lack of skill with aetherial manipulation of any sort—before even a moon had come and gone, the man departed. Said that he had enough of this place, of the pointless attempts. If there were any changes, then the Exarch was to summon him here somehow.

With the Scion gone, he reattempted establishing a connection to the Source, beyond the Rift. This time, he was sure he could do it. This time his hand would tremble less. Tremble less it did, but still the Warrior of Light slipped through his grasp in the last possible moment, their light hiding behind the souls of those they held dear.

The staff landed on the floor with a loud clatter. A piercing pain split his head in half, not unlike the headaches he had had back when what little Allagan royal blood remained called out for the Crystal Tower and his long-forgotten memories. He was draining his own aether doing these summonings, and yet again the wrong targets were sprawled on the ground.

Scion Y’shtola departed nearly immediately by comparison, a deep frown on her face. Scion Urianger however remained, boring holes into whatever he could regarding the story of the Word of the Mother—when the Exarch enquired about that in particular, the man hesitantly started explaining. How Minfilia had been led unto the Mothercrystal’s bosom to see this world’s imminent destruction halted at the behest of the Warriors of Light. Thus the Exarch narrowed his eyes and likewise started explaining. How Minfilia was the name of the Oracle of Light who, on her own, stopped the Flood’s advance, how the Warriors of Light were villains at best and whether their tale tragic or heroic, they were responsible for what had been wrought.

The poor man looked exhausted.

Thus the Exarch bade him come to his private chambers for a moment, where he would explain whatever Urianger desired.

Ever since that day he had shown Lyna his face he had not taken the cowl off again. He slowly removed it, with his eyes closed. When he opened them he saw the Scion’s eyes in turn widen; of course a Scion would have heard of the Allagan eyes. If not from everyone who had been part of NOAH then certainly from one of his fellows from the Isle of Bal. Moenbryda, according to Urianger, had perished not long after he had gone to sleep. Krile on the other hand had come and stayed, all but a part of the Scions now rather than a remnant of the Students. Which, admittedly, was fine and something he would have done as well had he not left long before that tragedy.

And so he started talking. Said his name, retold the story of the Crystal Tower… of his awakening long after the Eighth Calamity. Of how in stories passed down he learned what had happened to the Scions—most of them dead with the initial use of Black Rose. A handful lived past that and eventually succumbed to long suffering—Urianger squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands hearing that he would suffer this fate if history did not change—and then there were those that valiantly fought on. And on. And on. Until they had naught left to give, but the world took all in return.

The last Scions to fall were the Warrior of Light and the Leveilleur twins, the three of them together until the bitter, bitter end that befell them as Alphinaud’s body gave in, as Alisaie reached for him even if she could no longer see; and the Warrior of Light standing before them, taking all that corrupted energy and those hateful words and steel weapons with a sad, sad smile. Those three did not die apart.

Urianger would have likely collapsed to the ground in disbelief hearing that, but the Exarch was many things—but a bad host he was not, and the chair he had brought here specifically to accompany his tale.

Thus he made an ally in a Scion who was no stranger to secrecy, even as the man buried his face in his hands again when he heard of the price.

He had argued that one life was more than enough a price for a world, even if that life was not his to spend. And now here stood another vainglorious fool, his life the coin to buy two worlds. Except that unlike Minfilia, the Exarch was grimly determined. They had all placed their trust in him, and he was not going to let them down.

And if he had to go down violently convulsing and vomiting corrupted, white blood—he would see the light taken to the Rift where it would disperse along with his life. That was a price he was willing to pay.

Urianger departed after a turn of the seasons in which they tried to find a way to undo the Call. He departed after they found nothing in the myriad books that were hoarded both here in the Crystal Tower and in the Cabinet of Curiosity.

Once again, the Exarch stood on the stairs on his own after that.

* * *

The next time he tried reaching for the Warrior of Light, something else in the aetherial sea that was the Source he could not see caught his attention for a split second. Something smothering and familiar—both here on the First and back on the Source as he wandered the desolate wastelands and ruined cities that had fallen to the immediate release of Black Rose. His mind was distracted for but a moment; that moment was enough to accidentally close his hand around the soul near that facility that doubtlessly was producing the Black Rose.

Alphinaud Leveilleur took his summoning in surprising amounts of stride.

“’Twould not be the first strange thing to happen to me, and it most definitely is not the fourth either,” he said almost cheerfully with that sad look on his face as the Exarch apologised profusely and handed over the set of clothing he had acquired. “And that is but a few weeks of my life. Judging from your reaction, however, I reckon I am not the only one to fall into your misguided hands?”

And once more he explained. Not in detail, of course. But he explained that Thancred, Y’shtola and Urianger had already found their unfortunate way here thanks to his mishaps when he but wanted to call forth the Warrior of Light.

Alphinaud did frown for a moment, looking at him as he coughed slightly and wiped across his mouth with the crystal arm. But he said nothing about that topic, and instead cheerfully declared that he was going to check if there was something that the Exarch and Urianger overlooked. With that, he departed.

The Exarch was left standing there, staring at the blood on his crystalline hand.

This was going to drain him to death before he ever succeeded at this rate.

* * *

The four before had been bewildered at first.

But this time, just as the world started turning and fraying at the edges, he heard a furious screech of anger. Felt the unfortunate subject of his summoning hurl themselves at him and felt those hands wrap around his throat. She only stopped when she felt crystal, but turned her rage instead to shaking him by the shoulders. Truly, if she did not stop now he was going to vomit blood and pass out, but in exactly that moment he felt a hot tear splash on his face. Her motions stiffened as well, and truly—he cursed his shaking hands.

“Alisaie Leveilleur, right?”

A dry sob escaped her as she got off him.

He didn’t talk to her further and got back up. Everything was still turning—he would need something to rebalance his aether posthaste or the overwhelming light would leave him part Crystal Tower, part fool from the future, part Sin Eater. He bade her stay there and wait until he returned with her brother.

* * *

There was one last thing he could try. The Scions were still less than pleased about being here, but most of them—the ones that answered him when he attempted to find and speak to them at least—agreed that the Warrior of Light was a necessity here, moreso than their return to the Source.

Thus rather than trying to grab them as he had all those times before, he merely attempted to forward a message. It was hard to sound like the Crystal Exarch and not like the man they once knew.

But letting any sort of sentiment seep through would ruin the plan. As of right now, they were destined to die an agonising death and he would live. He would reverse their fates, and any sort of lingering attachments would make the parting harder than it already would be. Thus he told them to find a beacon, something that would stay his fumbling hand.

What might have been a few weeks on the Source turned out to be three entire moons that he spent staring into the mirror, so very desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of that light that shone somewhere in the distance, beyond the Rift. At low points he even went as far as leaning his forehead against the crystalline mirror, a desperate plea on his lips. A hundred years and the Exarch finally managed to admit that he missed so many people that it was unreal that the one he set out to see again yet eluded his grasp. NOAH, laughing under the gloom-charged skies of Mor Dhona. The Ironworks, thirty people he travelled what remained of Eorzea with, their optimism in the face of how devastated their world was both baffling and contagious. The Crystarium—all mortals, the population ever increasing with more souls from what remained of the First, only for them to leave as soon as they arrived for the sin eaters spared not one.

And when that dark hour turned darkest, just a he raised the crystal hand to smash into the mirror—he saw it. A faint sparkle, a small but shining light. Not overwhelming like the light here on the First was; radiant, yes, but cool and comforting rather than soulless, lifeless, harsh.

He stepped away.

A hundred years of waiting. A hundred years of knowing what his friends that he would never see again told him. A hundred years of yearning to see the faces of the long since departed.

And finally, finally—he reached out, hesitantly. There were others nearby, souls entwined with the light that the Warrior of Light carried. But a single tremor and he would yank yet another beyond the Rift. Another bout of wasting energy that he could ill afford to spend as things stood, and history would continue on unchanged.

But finally he had his hands on them. He cried out in triumph—only for the light to flicker. If their soul hid behind their friends again… he would not succeed another time. It would at least return all those he had accidentally brought here, but history… history….

Thus he bade them focus on his voice. Rather than yank he offered them a hand.

They took it. That spark alone sent him flying backwards; the surge of energy so much more overwhelming than the summoning of the wrong people. He lay there on the ground for a moment, red eyes not seeing a damned thing in that crystalline blue room that was both his favourite place in the world and his own personal self-made hell. A few heartbeats passed like that in silence—he was surprised that his heart still beat, considering just how little this still was his own body rather than a mere extension of the Crystal Tower—and then he realised that it should not be this silent. Every other Scion had arrived in the Ocular, all of them disoriented and confused and angry.

But he was alone as he sat up, sight swimming for a moment before sharp horror made him see straight.

If they had been deposited somewhere in the Crystarium then everything would be fine. But as he let his senses reach out, nothing within the city limits seemed changed.

Rather, somewhere in the distance, somewhere in Lakeland, a bright light that seemed pathetic compared to the blinding radiance of the sin eaters crawling about the region that made sensing things hard flickered.

The Warrior of Light was not going to die to a random sin eater, but he still hoped that the Crystal Tower in the distance would draw their attention and inevitably bring them to the gate.

Then again they did not know the lay of the First and what was necessary to enter the Crystarium. And Lyna would be hard pressed to let a confused stranger in, lest they turned out to be a danger to the city that had been built with blood, sweat and the hope for a darker tomorrow.

Against his better judgement he all but jumped to his feet. Lyna did not attack people, but a simple misunderstanding could lead to blows being exchanged; once more he did not fear for the Warrior of Light… but rather for the city’s guards. Immediately everything started turning, and a horrible cough bubbled up from somewhere in his throat. Dry and hard to stop. More precious minutes wasted here as he reached for the staff and slowly made his way down the Crystal Tower. But as he slowly walked and time passed by, he realised that his worries would be unfounded. None of the parties attacked first and asked questions later. Being turned away would not make the Warrior of Light attack, and if their confusion seemed genuine enough to Lyna then perhaps she would believe they had lost their memories. Indeed, by the time he left the Crystal Tower he found himself uncharacteristically bouncy—almost as if it were years ago, with his main concern the Crystal Tower rather than the fate of the world. Biggs had so many times said that whenever the Warrior of Light and their exploits were involved his gloomy mood seemed to lighten somewhat.

A guard shrugged at him, clearly somewhat baffled by the Exarch’s almost elated mood.

The mood immediately dropped when he heard the sound of a weapon hitting flesh; only Lyna threw her weapons like this. He arrived but in time to see a sin eater vanish—and to see the horrified expression on the Warrior of Light’s face as they seemed to recognise the ring that remained. Just his luck; he summoned them, immediately deposited them somewhere in the wild and the merchant they ran into got themselves eaten by a stray sin eater.

Nevertheless, he tried to keep both his longing joy and his fearful dread under control as he thanked Lyna for taking care of his guest.

* * *

“Wait. If the tower’s active, does that mean that G’raha…?”

He watched their face as they said that. It had been so long he had almost forgotten the way they looked—those wide eyes, blown even wider with the realisation that if the Crystal Tower here was not locked then surely its caretaker must have risen from his slumber. He wanted to tell them that G’raha Tia was in fact fine and perfectly happy, free to do whatever he wanted and that he had chosen to save those he once considered dear and hoped to one day again consider dear.

Instead, he played the unknowing Crystal Exarch, the person who had called the Warrior of Light across the Rift because he was desperate and knew that the hero from beyond could save this world. _His_ world.

He tilted his head a little. “I’m afraid that name does not ring any bells.”

He hated being the one to wipe that little look of hope off their face. But it would be best for them to believe that he was someone else altogether; unless the Echo told them one day then he would only be the Exarch until the very bitter end. A perfect stranger. An ally. But a stranger regardless. He was just happy to know that this was indeed the face he had longed to see for the longest time.

* * *

He was a far cry from his younger self. Where he had once been the one to do the pointless acrobatics while they considered swapping from a bow to an axe about the time that NOAH finished their analysis of the Labyrinth of the Ancients and would be ascending the Syrcus Tower soon thereafter, he now watched them bolt headfirst into Holminster Switch, the sword that was more metal slab than anything else twirling as it carved a path through the lesser sin eaters and kept those that the rest of them took down with spells and thrown weapons. Lyna was most definitely paying attention to the way the Warrior fought, her brows ever so slightly furrowed as they all but stormed across the fields akin to one of the bull-esque sin eaters that charged at them. The Leveilleur twins followed the Warrior most diligently, even if Alisaie choked back what sounded like a sob after they took care of this horribly screeching sin eater that flailed about like a newborn babe. He was fairly certain he was the only one that heard that sob, seeing as Alphinaud and Lyna both stormed after the Warrior.

They definitely became more ferocious after this fight, their sword still perfectly under control but a definite anger on their face. Just the way the ears were drawn back and their mouth was drawn open in a snarl made him wonder what precisely had taken place Amh Araeng.

It wasn’t until a little bit later as they beheld the Lightwarden of Lakeland that he realised just how much he was asking of them. One slight miscalculation based on skewered perception of times long past and mistold recounts of their exploits, and… he would be the one signing their death warrant in their blood. With his own hands.

The thought horrified him so much that he stopped paying attention for a moment as the damned thing went berserk; it slammed its grotesquely oversized arms into gravel and earth and bloodied rocks, sent all that nonsense flying as the ground trembled under the onslaught—and thanks to his distraction, he failed to dodge some of the hurled debris. A sharp pain went through his body as a rock slammed into his face, but he held back any sort of cry. They were all bloodied and bruised already, and frankly he was amazed that his body hadn’t given in yet.

He was still drained, exceptionally drained. Even if he could conjure up the same strength he had had in his youth, he did not doubt for a second that it would all shatter against Lightwarden. It would all scatter and disperse, just as his aether did right now. Gods, he was so tired. So very, very tired, even as the thing screeched and wailed and flailed about, all he could think of were the crystalline spires he had once looked up at with awe and that his life depended on now.

He very, very desperately wanted to accompany the Warrior on their quest.

Finally the Warden fell. It fell under that brutal light sky with a wail that sounded shrill enough to pierce ears. Whoever was closest would be the unfortunate soul that would turn into the next Warden; and if not a person then an animal. There was no defeating everlasting light, after all. Lyna barked the command to get back, likely in an attempt to have them all spared from that fate; there were more than enough live animals around that could turn into another Warden if they just ran now. But he very calmly said that it would not be necessary this time.

There were countless versions of the story of the Warrior of Darkness. There were some where they delivered the souls of those touched by the light, be they innocent or sinner. There were some where the were a travelling minstrel that sang and parted the endless light that way. A spear-bearing fury. A tradesperson on a travel. A hulking suit of armour that shielded them against the light. But all of them said that the Warrior of Darkness would bring back the night, something that naught of Norvrandt had seen in the last hundred years. Something that no living soul save for the Viis that lived in the Rak’tika Greatwood knew of, assuming they had lived that long.

Lyna had likely not expected a Mystel with a sword longer than their body. All those stories sounded so unlike a Mystel with a sword and those piercingly aware eyes.

But whatever she was trying to say died in her throat when the skies shivered and shuddered, parted and the light vanished. Lakeland had been in an uproar before—but now it was silent. Silent just as the night sky was, and though he in theory knew what it looked like, it still nearly brought him to tears. He so very desperately wanted to grab both the Warrior and Lyna’s hands and tell them it was working. Wanted to scream to the heavens in hopes of the Ironworks hearing him across time and space, somehow—it _worked._ It was going to be fine, even if all of them ceased existing down the line.

True, he was as elated as the rest of the Crystarium when they finally made their way back there; so many voices raised in celebration.

They all wondered who their saviour was, and just as he had asked—none of those that had been present said who they were.

It wasn’t until much later in the night that he left the city to retire to the spire; but just as he entered the Ocular himself he heard very calm and _very furious_ steps behind him. Before he could even address his new companion, she grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around.

All but tore the hood off his face.

Lyna glared at him, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she was worried.

“I knew it.” She scowled, reached into her pockets and withdrew a small piece of cloth. Then applied gentle pressure to his forehead. “I know what you’re going to say, go ahead. Claim that you sustaining injuries out of all of us matters the least. I thought I saw blood roll down your chin; you move fast for an old man when it comes to hiding things.”

How odd, being scolded by a child. Still, he closed his eyes and smiled faintly. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

She merely grumbled as she finished. “I did not expect a cut this deep, I should—“

“Do not waste precious resources on me. What the Tower cannot mend, it crystallises… as you should very well know.”

Perhaps a rude thing to say to her, seeing as she had only been a child when he had nearly gotten his throat torn out taking a blow meant for her, but at least it made her stop.

* * *

He very, very desperately wished he could be with the Scions soon to follow in ancient Ronka’s footsteps on their journey to meet with Y’shtola. He wanted to be in that gaggle of people marching through Lakeland rather than stand here, his hand clutching the staff and the other raised to his head as the dull, sharp pain shot through his skull as if he were a young man trying to figure out the secrets of the Crystal Tower again.

The pain soon subsided; the Crystal Exarch did not have Allag-related migraines and would not start having them.

He had a completely different headache approach him.

Emet-Selch.

The man had barely been constructive in this last meeting, saying that he could be accompanying them. That he would be watching. The Exarch shook his head slightly.

“I’m afraid this is not the way to the Rak’tika Greatwood, Ascian.”

“Spare me your japes, boy. Believe it or not, I do know the way. And I do know when to make my appearance. ‘Twould however seem that you do not; how bland.”

Were he more impulsive, he would have rolled his eyes. But he deliberately kept his back turned; he knew Emet-Selch was dangerous but he did not consider him a threat right now. That was the message he was sending, and the Ascian seemed to be getting that.

Idle conversation with a devil would would cause the Calamity that he was trying to prevent. It would have been funny were it not so damned tragic. But something about this man and the way he talked… something about it. It made him feel nostalgic in the worst sense—and he knew that not once had he talked to the Garlean emperor. Where this feeling was coming from, he had no idea.

He didn’t like it.

He wanted Emet-Selch gone from the Ocular.

But he kept the idle conversation up. Best to not make the enemy mad enough that he might strike when it would be so inconvenient to die at this point in time.

Unfortunately for him, Emet-Selch kept the visits up. There was clearly something that was bothering him by the way he furrowed his eyes, judging how he often tried to ignore any semblance of personal space to catch a glimpse of what hid under the hood. He was starting to fear that the man would figure out what precisely was going on the moment he saw the Allagan royal eyes. That red was a dead giveaway that he did not belong on the First; no matter how many survivors he met, all of those with red eyes lacked the almost unreal glow his seemed to have.

He gave Emet-Selch an almost cheeky grin every time the Ascian disengaged with a frown on his face having learned nothing. At the very least the time passed like that, even though the man vanished suddenly and did not reappear until the Scions themselves returned.

* * *

“Ah, please, hold on!”

The Scions looked more than surprised to see him here in Kholusia. Already the distance to the Crystal Tower weighed him down; the throbbing was familiar to him in ways that he would not have guessed he still remembered after so long. It was a constant headache, one that sapped him of his strength slowly but steadily the further away he was or the longer he stayed away. Such was the price of effective immunity to the passage of time, a trade-off he was more than happy to bow to.

This elevator had not been in use for a long time. Longer even than Eulmore’s sudden withdrawal from the fight against the sin eaters. Just the fact that they had managed to make it move once more was naught short of a miracle by itself, but the fact that the Scions had managed to unite Norvrandt against Vauthry seemed… unreal, almost. He had never dared to hope that every remaining region of the First would come together to see the night return.

Then again he had not entirely expected this to turn out this way. As the Scions appraised him of the situation and told him to expect the Warrior of Darkness back sometime soon, he watched Mt. Gulg in the distance. It seemed… unreal. The last Lightwarden waited there, and he found himself… not looking forward to it.

He had spent a hundred years here in Norvrandt, had come to love its people as much as he loved the people of Eorzea back… back… home? Was it truly his home still? In theory he came from a future far removed, under the crushing gloom of a tragedy that had destroyed mankind’s hopes for the future. Just as Norvrandt had been in the beginning. But now it was… not. And his heart swelled with pride as he watched all those people take off and salute each other, all of them moving about erratically. And this wasn’t even the bulk of the people who would eventually wind up here.

He turned his gaze to the skies under everlasting light. Kholusia was a beautiful region, even if Eulmore’s presence in recent years had been anything but a pleasure. Many people who travelled here said that everything had gone from wonderful coastal regions to unkempt wilderness, and from up here he saw. Saw the dead soil, the overgrown old houses that had been abandoned. But between all that desolation there were spots where the more stubborn people thrived against

Gods, he wanted to see the people of Norvrandt rebuild.

He had made his peace, he had assumed back at the Crystarium as he handed Lyna the key to his private quarters and said that should the need arise she would find instructions to raise a barrier there while he was away. But now that he had arrived in Kholusia, the Exarch very genuinely realised that for all his big talk even back with the Ironworks, he wasn’t… entirely willing to go. At least not without having gotten to do one thing.

* * *

He had spent years nearly fantasising about this scenario. Even back with NOAH he had admitted that after the Crystal Tower business was brought to a conclusion he might look into adventuring. A Student of Baldesion learned more when they weren’t standing still in one place, Krile liked to say and he always considered her perhaps one of the wisest of his fellows. He would manage somehow; he wasn’t exactly poor nor was he reliant on others overly. He could manage as adventurer. Perhaps, and that had been naught more than idle fantasising back then, he could just stick around the Warrior of Light.

This was perhaps the closest thing he would ever get to this idle daydream that had kept him company for centuries by now.

“Dwarves… huh.”

He laughed as they continued walking through the Kholusian highland side by side. “A proud people that generally stick to themselves, but seeing as the Flood decimated their numbers and reduced their families, a handful decided to ask permission to travel about. One such you seem to be on good terms with.”

The Warrior let out a loud snort. “Giott? Good terms? I’m not sure who’s going to snap first; either he bludgeons me to death or I throttle him. But I suppose that’s what makes him and me a good team. Kind of like the rest of the cardinal sin hunters and I.”

He nodded—perhaps a bit too enthusiastic for someone as old as him, but still. Those sin eaters had troubled Norvrandt for quite a few years, though not as many as the Flood stood still at the borders. Why they had risen now was a mystery to him, but he was full glad that they were taking care of these creatures that once were the very reason for the Flood. Somehow it seemed right.

There was but one interruption on their path to Tomra; a stray sin eater from the looks of it. Under the combined effort of sword and staff did the creature not stand a chance, and though it drained his limited energy supply, he grinned back at the Warrior when they sheathed their sword and looked at him with furrowed brows.

They were worried about him.

The Crystal Exarch was a mystery, a complete stranger—yet somehow they had managed to find it in their heart to consider him an ally valuable enough to worry about his health.

Gods, he wanted to scream.

He was sending them to their doom; he sensed the light by now. Something primordial that did not quite belong, something dangerous. They knew what waited at the end of the path but they weren’t sure if he knew… and played strong.

Just as he was.

A person on the verge of turning into a sin eater on the same scale as Vauthry, and a frail old man who finally had to face his own mortality and found that he thought his life was lacking despite all the things he had done. What a pair they made.

What a pair they made as they fought their way through hordes of sin eaters. What the sword did not cleave in twain, his spells incinerated. Hells, he almost missed the bow in this very moment, though he very much doubted that he still had the strength to wield it to its full extent. Hells, he felt a surge of energy that he didn’t know he had when the Warrior of Light went down—he reacted near automatically; cast spells that he hadn’t cast before in his life. All to ensure they lived.

That grin they gave him when the three of them fled into the tunnels leading to where they needed to go was so unlike anything he had imagined in the last years. The Warrior of Light was so very unlike what his faded memories and the history books painted. A grin more teeth than smile, eyes that seemed to blaze under the everlasting light.

“Thank you.”

Yet their voice was gentle, genuinely grateful.

He choked back tears, choked back the urge to tell them what was going to happen once the last Lightwarden lay slain. Instead he forced a small smile back.

“Any time.”

And worse yet, when his power left him after he delivered what they came to unearth, he wandered off. That sudden surge to energy yet his body was all but at its limit. He staggered off, every step uneven until he finally collapsed against a rock. The Twelve grant him mercy, if one of the rogue Talos around the region caught him here and decided to smash him to pieces then that would be it. But through the muddled thought of Talos and skies that never gave way to night, he saw the faces of NOAH again, staring at him. He heard those distant voices that he had once known better than his own. He saw the doors slide shut, and rather than turn around and leave, he stared at the Warrior of Light. He so very, very desperately wanted to _step out_ and tell his destiny that it could wait a few more years. But just as he reached for them in his dreams, they shook their head.

“The future is where your destiny awaits,” they said, their voice surprisingly loud in his dreams. The doors fell shut with a deafening crunch, and he sunk to his knees.

He had been so certain back then. So certain.

His dreams were interrupted when he felt someone shake him, yet he could not help repeating what the Warrior of Light in his dreams had said—and once his gaze focused again, he looked into the worried face of the Warrior of Darkness. The same person, with a lifetime of heroic deeds and agony between them and the person he once knew. Those hardened features. The steely glare. The heavy, heavy sword that they lugged around as if it weighed nothing.

The entire conversation hurt, even as he bade them sit with him. This… talk of what would come after. How they joked about settling things with the empire, then saying that they had no idea and would likely do what they always did. And then the question what he would be doing.

Ideally, he would be dead. Hells, there was no way he wasn’t going to be dead. So instead he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and started talking about the things he wanted to see. The people he wanted to thank—most all all the one sitting next to him, their ears perked up and listening to the distant crash of the sea against the Kholusian shores.

* * *

For the first time in many years, he dropped the staff. His tears stopped before they even started falling.

It felt as if someone had set his insides ablaze, and his already bright surroundings got even brighter. Part of him hoped he would have the dignity to drop to his knees; he very desperately waited to raise his hands to his chest. The Exarch had thought about how hard this parting was, how it felt like his insides were being torn apart.

Now something—someone—had actually lodged a bullet in one of his lungs.

Emet-Selch.

Of course it was Emet-Selch who swooped in and ruined his plans with one simple pull of a trigger.

Yet all he could think of before he completely blacked out from agony was the Warrior of Darkness. Without him to take all that light away… there was no way… no way….

* * *

“Now then, you can always choose to speak, you know? There is no point in prolonging your suffering so much, my dear, foolish Exarch.”

After all the rambling about this place hearing him suddenly talk like this made the Exarch open his eyes.

Taking a deep breath was ill-advised—and besides, all he did was gasp pathetically anyway. Emet-Selch had seen fit to patch him up _somewhat._ Enough to keep him from drowning in his own blood, but not enough to make the agonising searing pain go away. It could have been hours, it could have been _days,_ and he was none the wiser. Time in this place flowed so very strangely, though he could very easily attribute some of that oddness to the fact that he was in literal debilitating pain.

“Foolish… though you may… call this… but I’ve… no intention of telling you… a Twelve-damned… thing.” Every breath he took between words was rattling, whistling. Painful.

“Stubborn little brat, aren’t you? Though that much did not change.” A long, weary sigh. “I thought I mistook that crimson at first, but lo and behold. It _is_ you. The more things change, the less they change during the Sundering.”

He heard footsteps—seeing straight was incredibly hard given how much pain he was in—and then Emet-Selch lifted his head by grabbing his hair. He let out a groan that was more a cough than anything else; his lung was still pierced, after all. The bullet was still lodged in his chest, though somehow Emet-Selch had stemmed the flow of blood. Old arcane magic of some sort or another, something he genuinely did not want to think about too much. His thoughts were focused on the Warrior of Darkness. The person he had failed.

“Now then, Exarch. Descendant of Allag. Crimson but not the right crimson. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You’ve been outplayed; the least you could do would be accepting your loss in stride. Perhaps I’ll see fit to end your suffering once you cough up the information I desire. Or if you wanted, I could give you the blissful ending you desire—you would get to be with your beloved Warrior of Darkness and drown this world in light with them!”

He could still hear them say his name as they sat there on their knees, their eyes unfocused as the light within threatened to overtake them. He could still feel the blistering power of said light, so close to him. A moment away from being able to whisk it away and close this chapter of their story and slam the book of his own life shut in one swift movement.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head slightly. Tried to tell Emet-Selch that he would rather die than tell the Ascian anything.

But another horrible cough went through his at its hard limit body, this time ending in horrid retching that made him see stars. Finally, finally he coughed up the blood that had been lodged somewhere in his throat for the longest time, spat it all over the floor as he passed out yet again.

He would die here. He would die here, unable to save the Warrior of Light, at the feet of an Ascian.

But at least he wouldn’t be betraying the legacy that the Ironworks left with him. The Crystal Tower was useless without him, without this precious gift that Doga and Unei had given him when they parted. This precious, precious gift that Desch had received from Salina. The Crystal Exarch would die here, yes. But he would do so without betraying those that paved the road for him.

He just sincerely regretted not being able to apologise to the Warrior of Light.

At least he got to see their face once more before his death.

* * *

He had no idea who this was, but their touch was familiar, almost. Gentle. Their voice sounded like nothing he had ever heard in his life, the language they spoke all wrong. But still he understood. He understood that this person could not do much, for doing this would all but erase them from his mirage. But it was the least they could do for him and the one he never could separate himself from. They were here, the voice said. They were here and facing Emet-Selch, and only one person could put an end to this madness.

Thus he took the hand that was offered to him, even though he still was on the verge of collapse. He had no idea who this person was, their face hidden beyond hood and mask—and all too familiar sight. The Crystal Exarch had done the same, and now he looked at this stranger who had been created as inhabitant of Emet-Selch’s little reflection of what once was, of what he lost and what he wished to gain again.

“Please, dear boy, stop him. Stop Emet-Selch. Stop my friend.”

He had no idea who this was. What they were asking of him. Yet he nodded at that person, his determination alone willing him to stand as he reached for his staff. He knew the words to call forth souls of others like the Warrior of Light. He could put a dent into Emet-Selch’s plans—or he could be the instrument to seeing them stopped.

The Amaurotine mirage was fading. But as he watched that, he reached for them once more. His hands phased through nothing as they vanished just in that very moment.

He looked at his hand.

Then turned his head towards the exit of this place. He could _feel_ it. That infernal dark power, that infernal blinding light. He knew where he needed to be, and this Amaurotine had given him the power he needed to walk on. Just that far. He could still save the Warrior of Light.

“Worry not, Hythlodaeus. I will put an end to this, one way or another.”

* * *

“’Tis good to see you awake, G’raha.”

He had been so very resolved to get yelled at. To get out of here. After everything and all that his own miscalculations had wrought he would not have been surprised by it the slightest.

Thus the warm, almost nostalgic-looking smile on the battered and bruised Warrior of Light was the final drop in this overly full barrel. He barely managed to keep standing straight as he choked back sobs and wiped the tears that somehow finally streamed down his face off. His torn sleeve came away wet with tears and blood from the still-bleeding cuts all over his face, but somehow he did not mind the stinging pain that shot through his head. Half-sob, half relieved laugh, he choked out that it was good to be awake.

Thancred and the Warrior of Light both walked by his sides to keep him from falling over; eventually Urianger stopped their merry on-foot procession through the Tempest to apply some rudimentary patching to all those wounds all of them had sustained. And much like back then in atop the Crystal Tower, the Warrior of Light laughed a little when he pointed out that their ear was nicked. They then nearly immediately jumped backwards when Alisaie tried to apply some sort of sterilising agent to it—the fluffed out tail only added to the strange comedy of the situation when they gave Alisaie a lecture on warning friends and allies before attempting anything of the sort.

* * *

“Hey, so. I never got to ask at Silvertear Lake but… you _can_ swim, right? ‘Cause our ride went back to the Source in the Lakeland. So… we have to swim.”

He closed his eyes slowly and let out a long breath. “I swim just fine. Slower thanks to my injuries, of course, but I can swim.”

“Good!” He did not take the hand they offered him and instead fought himself to his feet by himself.

Only when they reached the Kholusian shore and he heard the people cheer and call for all of them did he realise that he was… both relieved and disappointed. The Scions would be stuck here on the first for a while yet. He was not disappearing either, so dying to save the First and dying because of the Eighth Calamity was averted was out of the picture. He wondered about it, but when the people called for the Crystal Exarch it dawned upon him. Perhaps he had truly become that man. A man who had shaped Norvrandt after the Flood. Someone who would remain here for a while yet.

This time he took the hand the Warrior of Light offered him. They hauled him up with a smile.

He wished Biggs and the rest of the Ironworks were here to see this triumph. They had saluted him before he left, some of them had cried. They were saying goodbye, from the people of a hopefully soon erased timeline to a man on a suicide mission. He had wanted to die then, as long as it fixed this mess he had awoken in. He wanted the G’raha Tia who would slumber within the Crystal Tower to awaken in an Eorzea not torn apart, one where he could do as he had said. He had wanted that man to chart his course after the Warrior of Light’s exploits because of their successes and not because they were a night time story that kept the people from losing hope entirely.

Right now he had helped chart this course. He hadn’t followed it exactly to the end, but as he stood there with water still running down his still bruised face, he couldn’t help but stare at his fellow Miqo’te for a moment too long.

They weren’t the way he remembered them. Part of his memories had admittedly been washed out and he had filled the holes with the records of their life and death that he heard and found. The Exarch had had to make this friend anew, and still they called him by his birth name. A name he hadn’t heard since the day that the Ironworks saw him off and he began his long and lonely journey to this very moment in time. Lyna would chew him out. Gods, Lyna would chew him out. As would the rest of the Crystarium.

But right now, all he could focus on was the Warrior of Light. Alive. Aether in balance. With the Kholusian sun that felt so much like the La Noscean summer sun burning down upon them—but unlike the everlasting light, this was a wonderful feeling. Not long and the sun would set, and the stars up above would glimmer across Kholusia for the first time in a hundred years. For more than a few minutes now.

He opened his mouth to thank the Warrior of Light for everything, but the words were stuck in his throat as they moved forward a little.

They pulled him into an almost crushing embrace.

“Thank you. Thank you, G’raha.”

He could only sob into their shoulder happily as the people cheered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to hiveswap anon! i love u (no homo/hetero)


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